


Slow Hand

by Calebski



Series: The Misfits [11]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24576946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calebski/pseuds/Calebski
Summary: Prompt: [Sirius x Hermione]for TimeRose
Relationships: Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Series: The Misfits [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1484525
Comments: 35
Kudos: 203





	Slow Hand

_Darlin’ don’t say a word, cause I already heard  
_ _What your body’s sayin’ to mine  
_ _I’m tired of fast moves  
_ _I’ve got a slow groove  
_ _On my mind_

Slow Hand / The Pointer Sisters [1981]

* * *

It was his hands that did for her in the end, or so Hermione would muse years later. At least, they were the beginning. Even after age began to take its toll on her mind, she was still one to theorise. The world made more sense when she could explain _everything_. It brought her comfort. Not as much comfort as Sirius Black had, but then, that would have been an almost impossible feat. 

Hermione had spent a fair amount of time watching him over the years. Most particularly, when he was sitting holding a glass between his fingers, which was worryingly often. His fingers were tattooed and rough, and his skin was aged beyond his years from his time in prison. Despite his brash manners and blunt speech, his hands had always moved with a confident grace that Hermione had struggled to ignore. 

But, even though they were captivating to look at, it wasn’t their _appearance_ that enthralled her to the point that she couldn’t look away. It was the promise of what those hands offered. 

Sin, salvation and everything in between.

* * *

After the ashes of war were cleared away, the _real_ work began. Things needed to be mended, cleaned and evaluated, and not just Hogwarts. Kingsley Shacklebolt tore down both the aberrant physical structures and the systemically privileged system within the Ministry of Magic and began anew. 

He wasn’t the only one looking to make wholesale changes. 

The Weasley’s began rebuilding the Burrow; Harry went into therapy and Hermione? She took six months off. 

A whole half-year, that was what she had promised herself in those dark moments in that dingy tent on the run. Now they had done it, actually pulled off the impossible and won the day, Hermione refused to go back on her word, and she left. 

She sank into the time like it was the softest mattress. Hermione focused on herself now that she was away from everyone else, taking the chance to patch herself up the best she knew how. It was maybe a little self-indulgent, and a bit of a cliche but she wanted, no, needed, to find out _what_ she wanted to be for herself, not as Harry’s friend or an Order operative, but as Hermione Granger. A girl she had almost forgotten existed outside of the boxes she had been put into. 

Six months to the day of her departure, Hermione came back, as she always knew she would, but now she needed to do more than just dust herself off. Now she needed to build a structure of a life up from the rubble that lingered. 

Looking back, she was clearly waiting for something, waiting for him, probably. But everything was more apparent with hindsight. At the time, Hermione just felt lost.

* * *

Sirius returned from the veil the very day _after_ Hermione arrived back from _gallivanting around the world_ , as Ron had called it. 

Harry had been delighted by the sudden appearance of his Godfather. Everyone else had been flummoxed and, if they were truly honest, a little wary. No one knew how to explain it. Sirius had been _completely_ gone. He had vanished without a trace. People from the Order had _seen_ him fall, and they had grieved for him. Then one day it was as if the veil had just spat him back out. 

Sirius was in St Mungos for just over two months. Which was hardly surprising given that the first thing he did, following his ‘rebirth’ was collapse on the Ministry floor and cough up - what one Ministry employee referred to as - ‘a shit load of blood.’ Unbelievably, that eyewitness account had made it into the official report. 

He was assigned a team of Healers that worked in rotating shifts to stabilise both his body and his magic. Most of the damage they were repairing was legacy stuff from his time in Azkaban and on the run. He had never been adequately set to rights after his escape and Hermione hadn’t ever imagined that Sirius had been living _the good life_ while alone in Grimmauld Place. He was malnourished, scarred and tired but otherwise amazingly, implausibly functional and whole.

Then, once they were finally satisfied, the team of Healers, who were amusingly sad to see him go, passed him over to the Department of Mysteries. Thankfully, Harry had negotiated, with the help of Kinglsey, for Sirius to be able to come home once he left the hospital. So Sirius went to the department every day for two weeks but was allowed to go back with Harry, as soon as the younger man finished his Auror shift. 

The Unspeakables ran all sorts of tests, most of which were so bizarre that Sirius couldn’t even identify the magic that had been used. But it was to no avail. The _official_ response was that they had no idea what had happened. With a lot of grumbling and three Unspeakables assigned a ten-year project to study the veil and its mysteries, Sirius was free to go. _Truly_ free this time, as Kingsley had commanded his record be expunged after the war. It had been a symbolic gesture, a move to show how this government would seek to right the wrongs of the past. It felt less hollow now Sirius could actually benefit from it. 

Sirius moved in with Harry and Hermione at Grimmauld Place, a house that now looked so different than it had during the war it was wholly unrecognisable to him. It hadn’t been Hermione’s plan to move in, but when she had first come back she hadn’t made any other arrangements, and Harry had insisted. 

After the war, Harry was keen - _too keen_ it felt like sometimes - to hold them all close. Hermione had eventually given in to his demands that she live with him and Sirius on a semi-permanent basis. Hermione didn’t ask Sirius what he thought of the arrangement. She wasn’t brave enough.

* * *

Sirius was a tidier housemate than Hermione had anticipated. While he didn’t seem to care what anyone else did, he liked to have his own things in order, and he took care of his possessions in a surprisingly methodical manner. 

About a month after Sirius began staying full time at the house, free from Ministry interference, Hermione found him in the kitchen with a cloth in his hand, and his beaten-up leather jacket stretched out across the long table. 

“Sorry, should I leave you two alone?” she asked with a quirk of her brow as Sirius made an inventory of repair work. 

He smirked at her. His lips slipping into a familiar pinch as his eyes danced with long-forgotten mischief. He’d never done that _to her_ before. Against all her better judgement, Hermione found the expression devastatingly affecting. 

“Who knew you had a sense of humour?” Sirius teased and moved back out of her way. “Don’t mind me, Poppet, essential maintenance.”

Hermione made the tea she had come in for and was intending to head straight back out again, but she couldn’t help but pause at the door. She watched Sirius work the cloth over the aged leather with an unusual amount of fascination. He was cleansing the fabric and then polishing it with a black tinged paint in smooth circular motions that were habitual, even if he probably hadn’t followed this routine for years. 

The tips of his fingers had blackened from his work, and his hand clenched and bit into the soft shammy in his palm. Hermione would never have believed Sirius was capable of such patience if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.

She gripped her teacup a little tighter and walked away from the doorjamb, finally letting go of a sigh as she climbed the stairs.

This might be a problem.

* * *

Over time, Hermione noticed that Sirius liked to play with his hair, especially when it was newly cut, which it was, often. Hermione couldn’t understand that level of meticulousness focussed on something as banal as hair. Reluctantly, Sirius had eventually admitted that although he _liked it_ long if his hair grew below his shoulders, the ends began to curl and he _hated it_ when it curled. It was quite humorous to think that a man as famously devil may care as Sirius could be so vain.

They were sitting around the table at the Burrow all ready to have Sunday lunch when Sirius decided to make an appearance. He wasn’t one of the ones that could be relied upon to show up every week, but he made it to most dinners, especially if it was a special occasion, which, given how many of them were part of this extended family, it almost always was. 

He skirted the edges of the room for a while before settling with Remus and Tonks and eventually finding his place before Mrs Weasley served.

When Sirius had first got back from the veil, large crowds and excessive noise had been too much for him, much like they were for Remus if the moon was close. But, with the patience and perseverance of those that loved him, Sirius had steadily built up his resilience. It was probably helped along by more alcohol than was good for him, but Hermione didn’t think it was her place to judge. Or rather, it wasn’t her place to comment, she couldn’t stop herself from judging. 

Later, once they were all too full of food to protest when Mrs Weasley suggested they stay for drinks, Hermione watched Sirius as he stood in a crowd of the boys, exchanging stories that were making Percy blush like a beacon. 

Sirius’ fingers reached up to push his hair behind his right ear and then, not a moment later, the very same fingers pulled the strands down again. It happened over and over. Back then forward, back then forward. It was maddening, and it made Hermione’s fingers itch, she wanted to touch his hair herself. 

“You’re staring again,” Fleur said as she sat down on the sofa Hermione had retreated to and bumped her shoulder. 

Hermione sighed; she was doing that a lot lately. “I know,” she admitted. She fiddled with her fingers as anxiety began to bloom in her stomach. “Is it really obvious? Does everyone know?”

Fleur shook her head. “I don’t think you’re _obvious_ enough.” Hermione made a spluttering sound, and Fleur passed her a drink. “The girls might have noticed something, but none of the boys. Men are stupid, Hermione, as a general rule.”

Hermione bit her lip and tried to keep her gaze focused on her friend. “That’s a relief.”

Fleur eyed her critically. “You want him to _know_ , don’t you?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione replied and dropped her head on Fleur’s shoulder. 

Sirius headed towards the back door to go outside with a small crowd and Hermione didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

* * *

Hermione was in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, ostensibly doing some washing up but she was paying more attention to the window above the sink than the crockery in her hands. In the small garden beyond, Sirius was tinkering with his bike and Hermione was inside, watching him and debating her next move. She was spying, she supposed, but it didn’t feel good to admit that. 

Hermione watched him as he worked, laying under the bike on a dirty patch of grass as he covered himself in grime. The sight should have made her recoil. Hermione _hated_ mess. But, it suited Sirius, as stupid as that sounded. 

She had been debating going out there for more than ten minutes. When Fleur had spoken to her at the Burrow Hermione had initially tried to ignore the conversation. Fleur was a lot more self-confident than her, but it was getting harder to deny that the part-Veela had a point. 

When Sirius had first come back from the veil, Hermione had developed what she had thought of at the time as a harmless crush. Then, she had merely thought of it as _bloody inconvenient_ because they were living together. But, over time, those unruly little butterflies in her stomach, had morphed into something _much_ more potent. Her growing feelings clawed at her awareness _all the time_ and made Hermione _painfully_ unsure what she should do now. 

_Should she suppress it and hope it went away? Should she act on it to find closure, and hope his likely rejection didn’t humiliate and crush her?_

Hermione’s hand had been hovering over the lemonade pitcher, thinking to take Sirius out a cup. Her crush had meant that she usually stayed quiet around him until he initiated a conversation. He had the most infuriating ability to make her tongue-tied. Hermione thought the drink would have been a good ice breaker, so to speak. A reason to go out there and not look like she was hovering.

Hermione glanced out once more as Sirius reached up to untie a partially rusted screw. The action rode up the bottom part of the faded t-shirt he was wearing, exposing a sinewy, muscled stomach.

Hermione’s cheeks burned and her hand clenched in the air above the jug. Then she walked away.

 _You are not a coward Hermione Granger_ , she said to herself. Maybe if she said it enough times, she could get herself to believe it?

* * *

Hermione was _trying_ not to watch and giving it more effort than usual. Though, as ever, it was a losing game.

In a fit of nostalgia, Harry had decided they should all go to the Three Broomsticks for Friday night pints, and when faced with that much enthusiasm, nobody had the heart to tell him no.

Hermione was sandwiched between the twins, trying to pay attention to their admittedly rather funny story about their latest product experiment failure, while Sirius was _making friends_ with a lady at the bar. He’d gone up to get drinks ages ago but had got so distracted that in the end, Remus had gone on a recovery mission. He’d banged Sirius on the shoulder picking up the tray that had been languishing on the side and headed back to much fanfare. But Sirius had stayed up at the bar.

The witch he was aiming (what Hermione now knew to be his not inconsiderable) charms on, had been sitting on a stool, nursing a glass of wine when he had first approached. Sirius had been edging closer and closer as they chatted and laughed. By Hermione’s reckoning, it wouldn’t be long before he was on the witch’s lap or vice versa. 

At some point, three or four drinks Hermione shouldn’t have had later; she looked up from the Quibbler article draft Luna had brought along and caught Sirius trailing the backs of his fingers down the witch’s bare arm. The gesture was affectionate as well as unquestionably intimate, and Hermione’s tongue suddenly felt too large for her mouth.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Luna asked, and Hermione forced herself to smile. She thought her face might snap and spring back like overstretched elastic, but she did it.

“I’m fine,” she answered quickly. “Thank you, Luna.” She looked down and handed the article back to her, “It’s a great piece of writing.”

Luna looked past where Hermione was sitting, past their group and towards the bar, and Hermione felt her face heat. 

“I think if you let him know, his reaction might surprise you,” Luna said as she placed her head into her upturned hand and peered thoughtfully in Sirius’ direction.

Hermione scoffed as she picked at a divet in the battered table in front of her. “I wish I could believe you.”

* * *

Later, _much later_ , Hermione was lying in her bed with her blanket pulled up to her chin, trying to sleep. It was a fool’s errand. A noise clattered from above her head, and she shut her eyes tight as if that would somehow have any effect. She was sure there was a circle of hell that closely resembled her current predicament.

Hermione had left the pub not long after her conversation with Luna and had managed to make it home, have a shower and settle into bed without incident. Unbelievably, despite everything that was going on in her mind, she had managed to fall asleep rather quickly. Unfortunately, she had been woken up an hour or so before by Sirius returning, and he was not alone. 

Hermione had heard them as they haphazardly made their way up the stairs. The only thing that made more noise than a drunk person attempting to be quiet _was_ two drunk people trying the same. Hermione could hear every word they muttered and animatedly shushed each other for. She heard them as they entered Sirius’ room, which by some cruel twist of fate was directly above hers. 

Hermione had stared at the ceiling when Sirius’ boots had been wrenched of his feet. They’d fallen with a familiar thunk. Previously, that noise had felt reassuring, that evening, it felt anything but. 

When _other_ noises started, sounds that left Hermione in _no doubt_ of what was happening, she put a cushion over her head and groaned. It wasn’t good enough. Whoever Sirius’ new paramour was, she was undoubtedly _enthusiastic_ in her receipt of his attention. He was hardly less so, damn him. 

Hermione fumbled around in the dark before she found her wand and cast the strongest silencer she could think of at her ceiling, then she sagged, breathing hard and slipped back between her covers. They’d felt comforting before, and now they were too cold and too empty. 

She tossed and turned and tried to sleep. Somehow the false quiet was even more grating than the distant sounds of pleasure had been. Just because she didn’t hear them didn’t mean they weren’t happening. Hermione threw her head back against the pillows and tried to trick herself into falling asleep. Her throat and eyes felt scratchy, and she hated herself for it. She blinked back an unwelcome rush of water from her eyes and swallowed until it didn’t hurt.

 _Eventually_ , after reciting times tables to herself for over an hour, Hermione drifted into a restless sleep.

* * *

When Hermione came down into the kitchen the next day, it was busy. Harry was at the table working his way through a stack of toast and the Daily Prophet, and Remus was there, presumably expecting to go for breakfast with Sirius. Only, Sirius still had company. The girl from the bar was there, clad in what must have been a pair of his boxers, and what Hermione recognised as his prized ZZ Top, Worldwide Texas Tour t-shirt.

“Hermione,” Remus greeted warmly and pulled out the chair next to him. Hermione thought she recognised a touch of concern in his face, and she was a little embarrassed but not surprised. She had seen the dark circles under her eyes before she came down, and Remus had always been very kind to her.

“Rough night?” he asked as he proffered her a cup and Hermione nodded. 

“Something like that.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a throaty guffaw from Sirius who was leaning into the girl, _woman_ , who preened under his attention. Sirius swatted her behind in retribution for whatever remark she had made, and Hermione wondered if she would get her throat to function well enough to allow her to finish her tea. Breakfast was now entirely out of the question. 

She was so bloody tired.

* * *

The next morning, when Hermione entered the kitchen, feeling slightly better than she had before, she found it blessedly empty. She faffed about to her heart’s content, stretching out the paper and putting together a bowl of cereal and some juice. She was on her second cup of tea when Sirius walked in, fully clothed and on his own. 

He greeted her warmly, and Hermione managed a monosyllabic reply and got back to her breakfast. She felt like she had to try to act _natural,_ which was so pathetic it made her want to cry. She lowered her spoon and tried to review Percy’s latest article on Ministry regulation changes until Sirius pulled out the seat next to her. 

She jumped. Hermione was mortified and enraged. Of all the seats he could have picked (there were twelve others for the love of God) he just _had_ to sit next to her. In her eyes, it was further proof, if proof were needed, that he was wholly unaffected by her. 

“Is everything okay?” he asked kindly as he leant over her to pick up the sports section. Hermione never bothered with it. It wasn’t as if people didn’t talk about that stuff all the livelong day anyway.

“Sure,” she said with a shrug and handed him the international affairs pages. She had finished with that already. She liked to get the most complicated readings out of the way first, even at the weekend.

“You know if there is anything bothering you…” Hermione’s hand stilled. “Or anything you needed, you can ask me.”

Hermione inhaled and exhaled and then plastered a brittle smile on her face. “Thank you, Sirius. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Harry entered soon after, and Hermione could not have been happier to see him. 

* * *

Another week, another party, this time at Grimmauld Place. When Hermione was younger, she would never have imagined she would have so many close friends or such an active social life. War she supposed, did that to people. It had galvanised the Order together and would probably do so for the rest of their lives. Hermione had always felt excessively grateful for that. Until now. 

Now she wished she could do what she had done at the beginning and disappear for a few months. Hopefully, she would get over this ridiculous infatuation and go back to being _relatively_ pleasant to be around. Hermione pulled herself away from the wall she had been resting against and went to get another drink.

As her hand landed on top of a wine bottle she picked at random another joined it. It was Sirius’. 

“Let me get that,” he said, but he never removed his hand, he just shifted it slightly off hers so he could grip the bottle and then directed it towards a glass. His fingers stayed over hers, and they were impossibly warm. 

“Thank you,” Hermione said politely and then wracked her brain for something else she could say. She came up with nothing, and after a few moments of increasingly awkward silence, she pulled her fingers away and managed a brief ‘see you later’ before disappearing back into the crowds. 

Hermione made sure she was with people after that, she talked, she drank, and she laughed. She made a concerted effort to enjoy herself, and she thought that for once, she had managed to fake it passably. But behind the smiles, Hermione couldn’t get the image of their overlapped hands out of her mind. 

His hands were beautiful she realised and a mass of contradictions, just like the rest of him. 

For once, Hermione got very, very drunk.

* * *

After the party, Hermione felt like Sirius was everywhere. Before now, there had been times when they had gone several days with only a quick interaction - they kept very different hours - now they didn’t even seem to ever be in a separate room, apart from when they slept.

When Hermione got back from work, Sirius would be there, in the kitchen, ready to have dinner. At the weekend he would be in the garden, sat up by the small table and chairs she favoured. In the evenings he would be in the library, ready to suggest a book or laughingly offer a foot rub. Hermione had come dangerously close to taking him up on it a couple of times. She was losing her restraint, which was fine, her self-control could fly the nest and go and live with her heart and her sanity who had both buggered off months ago.

* * *

Hermione had been hesitant to go to the pub the next time it was suggested. Although this one was Muggle, and Sirius wasn’t seeing the witch from the other night anymore, it didn’t mean there wouldn’t be another one. She didn’t begrudge him it, not really, Hermione was painfully learning that the selfless nature of love really did mean that you wanted to see someone happy, even if it wasn’t with you. She just didn’t want to watch it play out in front of her. Or hear it, ever, _ever_ again.

In the end, Hermione had been unable to resist a pair of pleading eyes, Ron’s this time, and so she agreed so would come by later in the evening. 

When she arrived, Sirius was already there, though, instead of standing on the peripheries and heading to the bar every half an hour, he was sat at the table. When he saw her, Sirius gestured for Hermione to come and sit next to him and produced a drink that he had been saving before talking her ear off about some reform bill the Ministry was working on. 

Hermione had known that Sirius was in the process of reinstating the Black seat on the Wizengamot, she had also known he was bright. She was surprised by how _interested_ he seemed in some of the topics he had been looking up in preparation. Remus had always painted him as someone who wasn’t keen on taking on his birthright or getting to grips with the admittedly slippery world of politics. Maybe things had changed now he was back?

Hermione was in a state of extended bliss that skirted around a growing well of agony. It was _wonderful_ to be the object of Sirius’ full attention. It was something she had imagined often, but her musings had not done it justice. He asked her questions, and when Hermione replied, he hung on her every word. They argued and disagreed, but the once biting heat that had existed between them had tempered into something far more captivating and alluring. 

Hermione knew it couldn’t last. She wondered if she was hurting herself more by allowing it to happen, by giving herself more fantasy material to chop up and rehash later, when she got into bed, alone. 

By the end of the night, Sirius had his arm draped around her, and they talked while many of the others paired off. Hermione felt his arm tighten around her waist when Percy benignly asked if she wanted to meet up the next day, and she tried not to let her heart race.

She failed.

* * *

The following weekend, Hermione was in the garden at Grimmauld place, lounging in a deck chair that Harry had brought for her when she heard loud voices in the kitchen. She couldn’t _see_ anything from her low vantage point, but it was unmistakably Remus and Sirius talking… or rather, arguing. 

Hermione was unsettled, they never quarrelled, not intently in any case, but after a moment’s indecision, she opted to remain where she was. She didn’t want to overhear anything accidentally, but she thought it might be more awkward to walk into the kitchen and try to announce her presence subtly.

Sometime later, after the muffled yelling quieted, the back door slammed, and Sirius came outside, pushing his hands into his hair before rifling through his pockets. He started when he saw her and Hermione offered what she hoped was an unaffected wave.

“Can I sit with you?” he asked as he approached and Hermione tried to morphe her face into something resembling welcome.

“Of course,” she replied cautiously.

Sirius noisily dragged over one the centuries-old wrought iron chairs and Hermione cringed at the thought of the marks he would have left on the patio. Once he was near enough for his liking, Sirius slumped down onto the seat, which must have been as hot as an oven, and stretched out his legs and tipped his head back to show his face to the sun. 

Hermione felt uncomfortable with his proximity and the seat he had chosen. It gave him the distinct advantage of being considerably higher than her. She wiggled in her deckchair and tried to prop up her knees in a way that obscured her stomach before giving up entirely.

“Everything okay?” she asked a little while later, once it was clear Sirius was not intending to speak.

He scoffed. “Fine.”

“Convincing,” she said lightly, and Sirius crossed his arms over his chest defensively. 

Hermione tried to concentrate on her book, but her efforts were for nothing when Sirius began to kick at the front foot of her seat absently. The impact shook the whole of her chair, and Hermione glared up at him until he noticed and stopped. 

“Harry said,” he began eventually, playing with the ends of his hair. “Harry said you might be moving out.”

Sirius’ words hung between them, and Hermione had a fleeting thought that maybe this was the reason he was upset? She scoffed at her own delusions. Hope was a bastard.

His words had brought Hermione up short. She hadn’t expected Harry to say anything. They had been having dinner just the two of them the week before, and Harry had asked about her plans. She’d ended up blurting out that she was thinking of moving. Harry hadn’t seemed too keen. Hermione had felt bad for her friend, but for once, her sense of self-preservation won out over inevitable guilt.

Hermione looked at the man next to her, the exquisite, complicated man that was collecting up bits of her heart without even realising it, without even trying. She needed to get on with her life. She didn’t want to see him with someone else again. But then, that hadn’t happened for a while.

She nodded and hummed. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“When? Why,” Sirius demanded leaning forward till his shadow draped over her.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve not made any concrete plans yet.”

“Don’t,” Sirus said passionately, and Hermione stilled. “Don’t make any plans, just stay.”

“Sirius,” Hermione said, softly begging him not to make this any more difficult for her than it had to be. 

“Please,” he said instead, and Hermione felt her resolve disappear. “For now?”

Hermione’s fingers bit into the book in her lap, and she felt oddly close to crying. They were both having the same conversation and yet Sirius had no idea what he was asking her, how cruel he was inadvertently being. But she could not say no to anyone, not when they looked at her like that, especially him. 

“Okay,” she said finally, and Sirius grinned, jumping to his feet and rubbing his hands together. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, happy and eager.

 _A backbone?_ Hermione thought caustically, but instead, she said, “Lemonade?”

“Sure,” he agreed brightly and sauntered back inside the house. A house that Hermione had committed herself to staying in no matter what it cost her. 

She let her head fall into her hands and soaked up the few minutes of silence before he came back, and the pretence would begin again.

* * *

At the next Weasley family dinner, once the food had been cleared away, Hermione waved off her friends when they went outside to play Quidditch (even after all these years, they still asked if she wanted to join) and instead she found herself fannying about in the kitchen, trying to make Victoire laugh. It wasn’t all that difficult, which was a lot of the fun. There was something amazing for the ego in how funny toddlers thought adult nonsense was.

Victoire gasped and then giggled as a clump of flour Hermione had been levitating, changed colour and then dissipated into the air with a soft clap. Hermione smiled, Victoire was a darling child and though Hermione would say she _never_ played favourites - the little girl in front of her had won her heart a long time ago. 

Children, Hermione found, were a wonderful distraction to whatever by play was going on around her and she had almost wholly zoned out of the ongoing adult conversation until Mrs Weasley’s voice stomped it’s way back into her consciousness. 

“Hermione should meet him,” the matriarch insisted.

“Hermione, should meet who?” she asked as she dusted some rouge flour from off her nose. 

“There is a _new wizard_ in Ron’s department at work, he’s just transferred from-” Mrs Weasley continued, but Hermione had stopped listening, again. She grinned at Ron when he mouthed that he was _sorry_ and tried not to laugh as Ginny began rolling her eyes at her mother’s antics. Soon enough, Hermione was back to practising letters with Victoire, who was _very_ advanced for a two-year-old, even if Hermione was utterly biased. 

“Not interested?” 

Hermione would have known that voice anywhere, her hand wavered, leaving her with a rather shaky ‘w’ that made Victoire brow furrow. 

“In what?” she asked as she set the sparkly blue crayon down and Sirius pulled out a chair in front of her. He smiled at Victoire and rubbed her cheek, and the little girl stuck her tongue out at him with a grin before shuffling closer to Hermione and holding onto her trousers. Hermione mentally added another gift to the list for Victoire’s next birthday.

Sirius began flicking through the crayons on the table as if he was deeply interested, but the taught lines of his shoulders gave him away. “In whoever Molly has decided will be the next Mr Hermione Granger,” he explained tightly. Hermione shrugged. 

“Not really.” She picked up the black crayon and held it under her nose by puffing up her upper lip. Victoire squealed and clapped her chubby little hands together. Sirius watched them with a soft look in his eyes that made a hole appear in Hermione’s stomach.

“And you don’t mind her _constantly_ wanting to set you up with people?”

“Is it constant?”

“It’s happened at the last three dinners, love.”

Hermione’s throat constricted at the ease at which the epithet fell from his lips. She wished he’d have a care. Sirius threw words around like knives and wherever he seemed to be aiming they always pierced her heart and ripped her flesh. 

“Her heart is in the right place,” she said finally and stared at the table so she wouldn’t have to look at his face.

Victoire pointed to a squiggly shape she had drawn, and Hermione palmed her wand. She pressed it against the parchment, and the slanty pink square danced across the page.

“What about,” Sirius began causally. “What if _I_ had someone I wanted to recommend?”

Hermione pushed her wand back in her pocket and reached for the water she had thankfully brought with her when she moved from the dinner table. At that present moment, she couldn’t think of anything worse than being handed over to one of Sirius’ friends like some absurd constellation prize.

“Hermione?”

“That would,” she managed to say. “That would depend on who it was.”

It was a lie, of course, he could not have named a single person that would have piqued her interest. Not now, not for a long time, maybe never if the recommendation came from _his_ lips. 

Victoire climbed down from her lap, no doubt bored with Hermione’s increasing inattention and waddled over to her mother. Hermione saw Fleur eying her encouragingly, and she blew out a large breath. _Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Nothing to be won in regrets._ She pulled the crayon tin towards herself and began putting them back in their proper places. Having something to do with her fingers was useful, necessary. 

“I don’t want to date one of your friends, Sirius.”

There, that was honest. Blunt but honest.

Sirius shifted in his seat, edging it closer and then leaning forward over the small table that separated them. “That’s erm… that’s pretty good news. I don’t suppose you would consider me?”

Hermione spluttered. “ _You_? I mean-”

Sirius ran a hand over his jaw and then Hermione saw it, it was the same expression he sometimes had in the morning, after bad nightmares, or sometimes after too many drinks when the gap between the present and his memories was at its thinnest. Sirius was feeling vulnerable, _about her_ , Sirius cared, _about her_.

“Yes,” Hermione said, nodding emphatically, wanting to end his discomfort and her eternal torment. “I would more than consider it. I would…. I would like that very much.”

Sirius stood up abruptly knocking the chair he had been sat in so it clattered on the scrubbed kitchen floor. He traversed the table in two long strides and then pulled Hermione up out of her seat and pressed his lips against hers. There was no preamble, no soft meeting of mouths. His lips were on hers for less than five seconds before his tongue begged for entry against her lips, and Hermione granted permission, powerless and unwilling to do anything else. 

Hermione quickly recovered from her surprise and elation, and, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she lurched forward to grip the lapels of his jacket, anchoring him to her while he _devoured_ her mouth. Endeavouring to keep up her end, Hermione poured _months_ of repressed hopes and the expectation of a shattered heart into the kiss. She felt her mind reach closer to a longed-for equilibrium with every nibble of Sirius’ teeth and sweep of his tongue. 

Minutes later they broke apart for air, and you could have heard a pin drop. Reality came crashing down around her ears and just when she began to panic, Sirius pulled Hermione against his chest, guided her head under his chin and gripped her shoulders tightly. It was instinctual she realised, he didn’t know what people were going to say and he acted to protect her. She hoped whatever plan he had for her was long term. At this point, she couldn’t see herself ever wanting anyone or anything as much as she wanted him.

“I think Caspar Pike is going to have to find himself another date Mum,” Ron said, sounding positively gleeful. “Looks like Mione’s spoken for.”

“I’ll say she is,” Sirius growled, but the intimidating effect he was no doubt aiming for was diminished by her lip gloss being smeared all over his mouth making him look thoroughly snogged. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, once people had stopped staring at them with the mouths agape, though he sounded anything but. “Couldn’t stop myself. Was that… alright?”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed quickly and then moved around him, so he was positioned facing away from their audience. She reached up to smudge away the ‘poppy punch’ shade that had been smooshed all over his face. “Could you do it again… when there are fewer people around?”

The grin he gave her was positively feral, and it sent shivers down her spine. 

“Anything for you Poppet.”

* * *

Later that night, Hermione was resting in the bath of one of the surprisingly grand bathrooms at Grimmauld Place. She wasn’t alone. After dodging most of the teasing at the Burrow, Hermione had decided it was best to call it an early night and said her goodbyes. She had flushed darker than ever before when Sirius announced he was leaving with her. He’d linked their hands before they went through the floo and since that moment they’d not once entirely relinquished contact.

Hermione had briefly hesitated when Sirius had led her to his bedroom. Something had screamed at her that it was _too soon_ that they should date first. _But why?_ They knew each other, better than most people knew anyone they started out with. Plus, she had been fantasising about it _forever_. 

After they had peeled off each other’s clothes and given into a growing lust that Hermione had been fighting to suppress for months, Sirius had gathered up her spent body and pulled her into the bath with him. 

Hermione had settled between his surprisingly muscular thighs, but it wasn’t long before Sirius pulled her up onto his lap. Hermione had no protests to offer, not even when his hands began moving, displacing the bubbles that had formed on the surface of the bath and gripping her breasts with a hungry, possessive zeal. The heat of the water accentuated how much darker his skin was, and how oddly blanks hers looked compared with his tattoos. 

A life lived, she thought as she ran her hands over his.

A life just beginning, she thought as she saw her skin flush.

Sirius kissed along her shoulder before trailing one hand down her body to grip at her waist and lift her as if she weighed nothing at all.

“Hermione,” he bit out like a plea. It was a question, and a promise all rolled into one and Hermione had never felt more powerful in her life. She nodded slightly, and he angled her body until she sunk on top of him with enough force to send water gushing over the side of the tub.

Hermione released a long steady moan, filling fuller than the bath surrounding her and Sirius panted and palmed her breast hard enough to be just on the right side of painful.

It turned out all of her imaginings of his hands paled into insignificance when experiencing what they could do _first hand,_ so to speak. It was enough to make her insensible. 

His fingers splayed against her abdomen, holding her in place and making her wiggle impatiently. “You’ll stay?” Sirius grunted as Hermione squeezed down on him. “You’ll stay living here with me.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, reaching up to hold the side of the bath to help guide her movements as her legs tired. “I’ll stay.”

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh and bit at her neck hard enough to leave a bruise. 

* * *

Two weeks later, Hermione and Sirius had migrated from the initial phase of their relationship that had seen them behind locked doors at every possible moment. Harry had jokingly quipped that he was going to have to leave home, to save his delicate sensibilities from being corrupted, but Hermione had seen that he was pleased. His approval was comforting. 

Sirius walked slightly ahead of Hermione as they approached the pub Fred had picked for that week's meet up. Hermione was feeling tense, the building looked upstanding enough, but there was always a reason to be wary whenever the twins had planned their evening. She was too distracted to notice Sirius was slowing his steps, but before she opened the door, he pulled on her hand and raised the linked fingers, studying her fervently. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, gesturing to their entwined fingers.

“Yes,” Hermione replied quickly, offering him a shy smile, and they entered the pub to a chorus of baldy insinuations about their absence for the last few weeks. 

* * *

Hermione watched Sirius as he paced around the library and thought about what she should say. It was the anniversary of Regulus’ death, the only day that affected Sirius worse than his fallen brother’s birthday. His mood had been darkening as the day wore on.

Sirius had a flame lit under him, he wanted to go out, to run, fight, do _something_ , but Hermione wasn’t sure she was the best person to help him with that. She’d half thought about offering him sex, but somehow that didn’t seem like the best idea. She didn’t mind it when he lost control with her, in fact, she rather liked it, but not for these reasons, not because he was working out grief and frustration so wholly unconnected with her. With no better plan, Hermione left him to it, letting Sirius do what he needed while she remained close and read a book. 

Hours later, or so she assumed, she was woken up as Sirius jostled her picking her up. _How had she fallen asleep?_

“Sorry,” she mumbled as he started up the stairs. “That wasn’t very supportive of me.”

Sirius harrumphed but carried on walking. Hermione leant up and pushed a piece of hair behind his ear before kissing his cheek. It was stubbly and rough, and there were days when she felt like he exfoliated away more layers of her skin than she could afford to lose, but she _loved_ the way it looked.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Not really,” Sirius sighed. “Same as usual, too many questions, no way of getting answers.”

Her heart ached for him. He’d lost so much. Harry had asked her before, about the resurrection stone, it had to be somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, and if they looked for it properly, they were sure they could find it. Ultimately, they had decided against it. Hermione had read the story of the three brothers so often she had almost committed it to memory. She wouldn’t lose Sirius to shadows from his past.

Hermione thought of Regulus, what she knew from his diaries and what other people had said. She looked at Sirius as he carried her over the threshold of their room.

“I think he would have been proud of you, you know?” She whispered. Sirius started and looked down at her. “Regulus I mean. You’ve become the man you both wanted to be.”

-/-/-/-

That night, when he made love to her, Sirius’ hands spent most of their time on Hermione’s face. Cradling her cheeks and tickling along her jaw. His eyes never left hers. 

“I love you,” he breathed out, “so fucking much.”

Hermione wrapped herself around him as tight as she could, knowing he needed it.

“I just wish… I wish he could have seen me now, seen who I am with you. I wish you’d been there to stop me, to make me see to… I just-”

“Shhh,” she interjected, kissing his face to hide the tears in her eyes. 

Hermione held him while he slept.

* * *

To Hermione, a person that had always struggled with interpreting emotions from others, Sirius’ knack for acting and speaking completely how he felt was a blessing. While he could be prone to dramatics and hyperbole, she found that when it mattered, he could be deliberate and shockingly without performance.

When he proposed, there was no flashy dinner, cast of thousands or skywriting plane. They were sitting in the back garden, both with books in their hands. 

“Hermione,” he said, turning to her and Hermione hummed in response, her eyes scanning to the end of a paragraph. 

“You know you're the best thing that’s ever happened to me, right?”

Hermione folded her book closed and pushed her old sunglasses up on her head. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course,” he replied, though he brushed his hand against his knees and flexed his fingers. It was a tell of his, whenever he was anxious about something he couldn’t stop moving. “I just wanted to make sure that you’re happy.”

“I’m incredibly happy,” she replied, sitting forward. “ _You_ make me happy.”

He grinned, it was a boyish expression that Hermione loved and hated all at once. It was beautiful as everything else about him was, but it was also depressingly rare. So much of Sirius had been stolen away over the years. 

“Well, as long as that’s the case. Would you… would you think about marrying me?”

To say Hermione hadn’t expected it would be an understatement. Sirius had always been _very clear_ about what he thought about traditional values. She’d interpreted that to mean that he didn’t want to get married. Hermione had made her peace with it. It showed that she hadn’t quite learnt her lesson yet, about being honest with him. Luna was right, as she often was, Sirius often surprised her.

When she began nodding before shock coloured yesses fell from her lips, Sirius smiled and leant back to push his fingers into his front pocket and pulled out a ring.

Hermione gasped. “Sirius, I can’t believe you have been carrying around a ring like that, it's so dangerous. What if it had fallen out?”

Sirius chuckled. “Jeans this tight, there would be no way anything was getting in or out without my notice.”

Hermione smiled, and he leant forward to push the ring on her finger. His calloused hands traced hers and pushed it past her knuckle until it was secure. It was a perfect fit. 

Sirius’s fingers lingered over her own, and he leant back in his chair to look at her. “Thank you,” he said, and at once Hermione felt engulfed by the emotion that those two small words held. 

“You’re welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Some Sirimione for you. This one came out super quick while I was taking a break from doing battle with another Sirimione one-shot I am writing for Elemental that does not want to be written. You win some you lose someone. I hope you are all well and keeping safe. 


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